


Item: One Archer, Slightly Battered

by Kathar



Series: This Can Only End Poorly [1]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Secret Avengers
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Fun ride though, M/M, Secret Relationship, Then it gets a bit worrisome, This can only end poorly, until it's not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint takes a fearless inventory of his body, like every morning. Phil appreciates it, like many mornings.  Then it all goes pear-shaped.  Or maybe robot lamprey-shaped.</p><p>A domestic character study fic goes off the rails.  Contains trace amounts of scone.  Trigger warnings and additional fandoms in end notes.</p><p>While this is part of a series, it’s designed to be read entirely as a stand-alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Item: One Archer, Slightly Battered

Hello, me.” Clint said.  

Phil Coulson unburied his head from the pillow, where it was avoiding the early morning sunlight splintering through the blinds, and uncurled until he could see where his lover was greeting himself in the mirror, utterly naked.

__

It was a sight he’d gotten fond of quickly: Clint’s daily reintroduction to himself.  Should have been egotistical, in abstract, but it never was.  Stark naked, not shaved, not showered, sandy hair smashed and tangled and going every direction but straight, he’d stop in front of the mirror, far enough back to see his whole self clearly, and take a comprehensive inventory.  Phil would watch from the bed as his eyes moved from toe to crown and back, occasionally poking a tender spot here or scratching a bit of something there.  Finally, he would straighten into himself, give a slight nod-- usually of satisfaction, sometimes (after a fall, a break, a hangover) of rueful admission-- and wander away to get ready for the day.  

The first time he’d been privy to the ritual, Phil had raised a quiet eyebrow but said nothing.  (He had, however, flushed at the way Clint had smiled as he lingered over the new scratches down his thighs and the tiny nibble marks on the insides of his arms.) Clint had seen the look, though, the way Clint always saw the little things that mattered.  Sometime halfway through the first pot of Phil-brewed coffee, he had said:

“My body and me, we work together daily, and God knows I treat it pretty rough.  But it’s mine, and I gotta respect it.  If I can’t work with me, I can’t work with anyone else.”  It was far from the first time that Phil had noticed Clint was more comfortable examining the workings of his body than the workings of his mind. 

For Phil, the idea of examining every feature of his naked form every single morning was terrifying; he felt most at home in himself after he was entirely dressed, sleek and fine in his suit, tie straight, composed and concealed.  Before SHIELD and the suits it had been the Army and the uniform.  The precision of his attire had been going up as his activity level went down-- there was just no possible way for an intelligence agent to be as fit as an active-duty Ranger.  He could tell himself that all he liked, but he couldn't get used to it.

After watching Clint, he’d tried the inventory once or twice in the privacy of his empty apartment.  Too hairy here; too lean there; what the heck was that mole doing; was global warming affecting his hairline, too, because it was receding faster every year; oh god was that a little extra layer creeping in around his waist?  Time to switch to light beer?  (Surely the situation wasn't that dire yet.) 

He’d tried one last time at Clint’s one morning, and Clint had walked in, just in time to see the look of utter dismay on his face.  He caught Clint’s smile in the mirror as he came up behind him, laying his hands gently on Phil’s shoulders. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” he said.

“From where I’m standing, that sounds sarcastic.” Phil was afraid it would come out a snap, but it was worse than that-- there was a distinct whine.

“From where I’m standing you’re blind, Phil.  You've got a body any rational man would envy.”

“Any rational man would get this body a waxing, right now.”  Clint caught his eyes in the mirror, glared, and ran his hands possessively into Phil’s chest hair, tangling his fingers.

“He’d have a fight with me on his hands if he tried it.  Christ on a plate, Phil, your entire chest ought to be protected by act of Congress.  It drives me crazy.”  

That was about as lyrical as Clint waxed about anything except his weaponry.  Maybe he could live with the hair, then.  But those distinctive knock-knees....  Clint frowned as they were pointed out, bent down, poked at them, stroked the backs-- and after a very unsteady moment, Phil collapsed forward on him giggling helplessly.  

He’d missed the morning meeting he was supposed to be running, and gotten glared at by Marc-- by Fury-- and Hill.  Clint had cancelled the lunch plans he’d had with that Kate Bishop and gotten glares from both her and the dog.  He didn't seem to mind any more than Phil did. It was hard to be properly penitent when you felt so coveted and golden and new to yourself.  

Phil never tried to take his own inventory again, but occasionally, he’d take Clint’s inventory, watching himself in the mirror and remembering all the places Clint especially liked, and that felt good.  That was a way to greet the day.

Phil had his own rituals, but they stayed entirely locked up in his head.  Standing in front of the mirror in the evenings as he brushed his teeth, he’d debrief himself on the day’s events: evaluating his reactions and pinpointing where he could do better, be faster; savoring the small moments of triumph, joy, satisfaction; acknowledging and releasing the moments of foolishness, denseness, jealousy, fear.  In the morning, shaving, he’d take stock of the day ahead and plot his course, then calculate multiple alternatives in case something went off-track. (Like Clint-- his morning routine had tripled in length after the introduction into his life of Clint Barton and his heart-stopping ways.)  He sealed his daily plan with his first lascivious sniff of coffee, sipped, and fully settled into himself.

__

He hadn't yet shaved that day, hadn't put his suit on, hadn't greeted the morning with a sigh of satisfaction as earthy bitter caffeinated life scalded his tongue, when it all went pear-shaped.

Clint was frowning at himself in the mirror, the tiniest hint of confusion and uncertainty on his face.  Phil sat up.

“What’s wrong?” he asked muzzily.

“I don’t remember that scar,” Clint told him, pointing to something on his hip.  Phil followed his hand, and his brain stopped for a moment.  While he was desperately trying to crank it back to life, Clint continued.  “Seems pretty new.  Round, but not a bullet, more like a bulls-eye.  It’s got... little tears?  Some kinda suctiony thing with teeth?”  

 _Like a robotic lamprey, maybe?_ Phil just managed to avoid saying.

“What, it just appeared there overnight?” he said instead, genuinely astounded for a moment.  Clint looked up at him through the mirror, eyes wide.  

“ Wasn't there yesterday, Phil.” he shook his head, trying to maneuver his hip to get a better look, “Much as I appreciate your skills in the sack, this ain't exactly a hickey, either.  Anyway, it looks days old. Half-healed.”  He was scratching at it now.  Phil sat up in bed, watching him carefully.

“Maybe you just missed when you got it?  It was covered up by a bruise or a bandage?”  Or anything else that made more sense, really, than a suddenly-appearing half-healed scar.  Clint examined something on his fingernail.

“I remember those things, Phil.”  The something on his fingernail was evidently more fascinating than it had any right to be, but Clint’s voice was still uncertain.

“ You've never collected a couple that you just didn't notice getting in the middle of a fight? That’s... amazing.” Phil responded to the confusion, all the while his brain was going _idiots idiots oh my god we are idiots of course it’s the little details it’s ALWAYS the little details_  in an increasingly frantic beat.

“You say ‘amazing,’ but I’m hearing ‘weird’, and that’s rich coming from a guy who apparently just collects wounds by the dozen.” Clint said.  “You’re telling me this isn't normal?”

“It’s... out of the ordinary, Clint.  But then,” Phil let himself give a heartfelt rueful smile, “that’s you all over, which is why you drive me crazy.”  He got out of the bed deliberately, walked over to the mirror, and knelt to examine the saw-wheel puckers next to his lover’s pelvis.  “I can’t even remember where I got some of my scars,” he mused, sliding one finger gently over the skin, finding the bits of sticky stuff Clint had been examining.  Clint looked up at him through the mirror, as unsettled as he himself felt.

“You don’t?”  

“ I've got too damn many to remember.  That shrapnel cluster on my thigh?  Might be from the time the convoy got blew up, or it might be from that other time the convoy blew up, or it might be from the time Reilly’s homemade still exploded.  I just don’t know.  Got a couple like that, and a few that I have no idea how they got there.  Plus all the ones I can actually remember.”  Clint was still staring at him, confusion the only thing really readable on his face.  Phil wished vehemently that his lover wasn't so damned much better than advertised at hiding his emotions.

“ I've got more than you do, and I could tell you where I got each of them, up to and including the ones I got while I was concussed enough to be seeing triple, and this isn't one of those.  It’s not just that I don’t remember where I got it, Phil.   _It wasn't here yesterday._ ”  Clint’s voice was strained, and so, when Phil met them, were his eyes.

“Okay.  I believe you.  So... what do you think?  Who do you ask about something like that?”

“Dunno yet.  First question is, what’s this stuff around the edges?  It’s not dried skin, it’s not anything I recognize.  You seen it before?”  Phil was silent for a long moment, drawing breath slowly and examining the options.

“Hard to tell, when all you've got left is rough edges.  Smells....” he leaned closer, resisted the urge to just lay his lips on Clint’s hip and kiss him all the way to his feet instead of answering.  “Smells of cloves.  Instant-skin stuff?  You ever use that?  Any of your doctors ever use it?”

“Not the clear shit.  I dunno.  That’s an idea,” Clint’s entire body perked up just a little when he caught hold of the thread of an idea, and every time he did Phil perked up a bit too, like there was some hidden circuit between them. “maybe I’ll ask the docs that patched me up when I went out cowboying with Cap and Wolverine last week. Could be they had some stupid idea of making it look pretty and put something over it.”  An instant of relief, and then “Of course... why didn't I notice that?” he glared, at himself, possibly at Phil, and Phil was just done.

“I’d say you were distracted by the hot man in your bed, but you’re never that distracted,” he said, and looked up.  “You’re Hawkeye, after all.”   Phil didn't mean the superhero bit-- though he couldn't complain, mind-- he meant the way Clint worked when he locked in on one of those tiny details of his: target, swoop, kill. Perfect every time. (He’d never stood a chance.) It was so frustratingly _sexy_ , especially at the exact wrong moments.  Like now.  Amazingly, his words seemed to help, given the way Clint’s eyes turned both soft and hot in the mirror.

“Don’t underestimate your own abilities, Man o’ Mine.  Hmm.  That sounded a lot less dorky in my head.  We’ll call that the backup theory: Clint Was Distracted by a Sexy Ass.”

“I’m flattered, unless that was a pun.  So, what’s the plan of attack?”  Phil winced at his own word choice.

“I’ll talk to the docs.  Check in with Katie-Kate and make sure I haven’t been roofied or anything that she’s aware of-- she would have told me, though.  Might kinda feel Stark out a little, see if he can identify a weapon that would make that kind of wound.  I’ll see if they have any ideas what I might have gotten hit with lately and how I coulda been distracted-- um, how else I coulda been distracted.  And probably better check the apartment and make sure I didn't just hit something in the middle of the night when I wasn't awake.”  Clint frowned, and Phil relaxed a bit. All serene for the moment. Time to deal with the lingering knot in the pit of his stomach later.  He kissed the scar gently.

“Let me know if I can help.”

__________________

“Can I help you with any of that?”  Clint said in his ear, grabbing the plate of ginger cream scones from him without waiting for an answer.  Phil re-settled the pile of folders and tablets in his arms and continued down the hall without slowing his pace.

“Good afternoon, Hawkeye, and thank you,”  he said easily, pressing his now-free hand against the biometric lock to the briefing room door.

“Good afternoon yourself, Coulson.” Clint replied, examining a scone and then stuffing half of it into his mouth, plate balanced in his other hand.  They turned into the room briskly and slid their burdens onto the table.  Clint continued to munch on the scone while watching idly over Phil’s shoulders as he arranged the piles around the inlaid SHIELD eagle in the middle of the table.  Acting Director Hill, Agent Fury, Black Widow, Mockingbird, Hawkeye--

“How freaked out were you this morning?” Clint asked, his voice barely a breath in Phil’s ear.

“Pretty goddamned freaked, Clint,” he replied, his own voice low and his head pointed away from the cameras in the corners.  “Just how close did we come to a real problem?”

“I don’t know yet, but you played it cool. A talk with Stark’ll be good-- I wanna see what his theory is, though I bet it doesn't come close to robotic eel-thing sentries.  Won’t do me any actual good-- unless he’s got tech interests in Latveria that we don’t know about.  But if you really can’t remember all your scars, he won't be able to remember his either.  And he’ll laugh his ass off at me for trying.  It won’t stop me freaking out myself, but it’ll settle any lingering doubts I have.”

“Lingering doubts about me, you mean?” Phil’s stomach knotted further.  Clint caught it quickly.

“I was wondering what was _wrong_ with you, Phil, not what you were hiding.”  Which was not really as reassuring as it was meant to be.  Phil sighed, smoothed his hands over the neat piles of folders.

“This is never going to work,” he said reluctantly.  “Not for long.”

“You talking about us, or about this memory implant shit?”  

“Yes?”  Phil turned so he could see Clint’s face, which was outright glowering now.

“Maybe so, maybe no, but I don’t know what the fuck to do about it. I don’t want to lose this.”  Phil knew exactly which "this" he was talking about.  The spike of relief shouldn't have been as sudden and profound as it was.  “We put in too damn much effort getting it started.”

“You’re telling me.  For the larger portion of that time, Clint, you didn't even remember I existed.”  Clint’s smile was tiny but real.

“Oh, I remembered you existed all right.  I was just pretty confused about what you thought you were _doing._ ”  And Phil remembered that, as well.  The mixture of mortification, desire and frustration he’d felt trying to court a man he’d worked with so closely but who couldn't remember any of it when they were away from SHIELD and in a position to actually do something was not something he was going to forget anytime soon.  Especially not the bit where he broke several regulations in order to hijack the hover-car in a last-ditch attempt at getting a date (that one had been Clint’s idea in the first place).  It might feel strangely like forever every time he woke up not-alone in bed, but it hadn't even been that long.  

“So whaddya want to do, Phil?” Clint continued.  “Do you want out?”  It was a challenge.  Phil sighed.

“No.  I don’t want out.  But one of these days, something is going to happen, Clint.  You’re going to get pissed at me for hiding things and break it off, and then it’ll be awkward here at SHIELD, when you’re remembering... everything.  Or you’re going to get pissed at me here, because god knows there are issues enough with the memory implants and missions to piss anyone off and I can’t promise I won’t be part of them--  we both knew that going in.  But then I’m going to have to break up with you at home where I don’t want to do it and you don’t understand why it’s happening.”

“And what happens if you decide to break if off?”  

“I can’t see myself wanting to do that.”

“This conversation isn't that, then?”

“No.  Really, truly, no.  I want you for as long as I can get you, any way I can get you-- but I’m also not blind.  The situation is untenable long-term.”  He sighed.  “Then again, we’re not the only situation that’s untenable long-term.  You-- home you-- is already starting to worry about your memory.  And the ‘new training routine’ fill just isn't a good enough cover story for being gone from the country for weeks.  We’re using you too often and too hard lately for this to last; when I recruited you, you were meant to be specialist assets for intermittent missions.  The need’s been there-- I don’t know what would have happened without you last time out-- but it’s taking its toll.  Clearly we’re getting sloppy if that’s the best job medical could do with the lamprey wound.  You’re too damn smart not to get suspicious, and Natasha’s too damn suspicious naturally. Either the memory implants or the initiative itself, or both, are going to fall apart eventually, likely sooner than later.”

“So, what?  We just hope it falls apart before we do?”  Put like that, there wasn't enough coffee in the world to stave off the headache Phil was getting.  

“You have any other bright ideas?”  That came out a bit more defensive than he intended, but other than a brief frown, Clint didn't call him on it.

“No.” he replied.  “Okay.  So, fine.  We just hope we get lucky.  And I’d tell you to be more careful with your fingernails in bed, but I’m already kinda rooting for myself to figure this out, and you just gave me another reason.  I’d ask why the fuck I signed up for this, but you couldn't tell me anyway.”   He sighed, “And what little I get to remember tells me it’s still important.” It had to be nearly briefing time; Phil’s internal clock was excellent.  He glanced at the door, knew Clint was glancing with him.  

“Just to clarify a bit,” Phil told him as they both watched for the door to open, already edging away from each other, “I really don’t remember whether it was a convoy or a convoy or the still. Just... so you know.  I meant all of it.”  Oh, he’d sighed to Clint in an earlier stolen moment before a briefing, just after they’d finally managed to get Clint to agree to a date, this is going to go so poorly.

Clint looked back at Phil and his smile when their eyes met was brief, but it was one of his whole-body smiles.  Every single inch of him perked up for a moment.

“You’re worth it, Phil.” he said.

“God, I’ll try to be,” Phil told him.  He’d never meant anything more in his life.

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: This is a Secret Avengers fic, which means memory alterations, and it has a pairing where one member is subject to said alteration. Said characters are trying desperately to avoid dub-con, but please know your triggers. 
> 
>  
> 
> End notes: Secret Avengers, goddamn, you are creepy and I love you. I wanted to wait until we had some better idea how exactly the memory alterations and nanites worked, but this insisted on getting written now. This story is set a little ways further into the initiative than the comics have reached, and earliest referenced events happen not too long after issue #3. So somehow, this ended up my first fic in this fandom.


End file.
